


Lieder Ohne Worte (Songs Without Words)

by garnettrees



Series: Love Songs From the Imperium [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha Charles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Space, Angry Erik, Angst, Boys Don't Talk To Each Other, Canon Jewish Character, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Emotionally Constipated Erik, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Feeding Kink, Forced Bonding, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, My Id Let Me Show It To You, Omega Erik, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Massage, Psychic Bond, Rimming, Role Reversal, Scenting, Service Top, Soul Bond, Space Opera, Subspace, arguing as foreplay, chess as foreplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10282157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees/pseuds/garnettrees
Summary: Charles Xavier, former freedom fighter and member of a fledgeling interstellar democracy, returns home early to surprise his bondmate. A simple enough proposition, if not for the fact his mate is Erik Lehnsherr-- convicted saboteur, Separatist leader, assassin...And the most notorious omega in the galaxy.





	1. Onset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Yours Truly sat down and decided to write a porny one-shot, to prove she does not in fact have a fatal case of literary elephantiasis. Clearly, she is insane (as if you hadn't guessed from the third person). What started out as porn somehow developed a plot (I _know_) and ended up at 52kb before it even got past the foreplay. And (cue Dean Martin) fic burns a hole in my hard drive, baby. 
> 
> This is sort of the 'flip side' to my story, [The Singer Not The Song](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3526919/chapters/7757984), and therefore must credit [tahariel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel)'s Front Seat/Back Seat universe-- she did it first, and she did it best. This takes place in the same 'verse as Singer, but about two to three hundred years after the Imperium has successfully colonized many worlds. G-ddamn plot. -_-'' It's a complete AU, but the dynamic I was aiming for was more latter-era XMA Cherik-- i.e., sex with _lots_ of baggage.
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings:** Dub-con inherent in a/o heat situations, arguing as foreplay, fictional society/religion enforcing power dynamics and associated discrimination, author read _way_ too much pulp Sci-Fi at an impressionable age. Angst. Cliches associated with a/o universes-- pride? My Id knows not this 'pride' of which you speak. ^_~
> 
> Title from Felix Mendelssohn's series of piano compositions. My favorite is Book 5, Op 62.

Charles returns from Prima Nova, two days early and operating on a hunch, to find Erik's collar lying on the table in the common room. The sight of it never fails to stir a dangerous cocktail of emotions within the Congressional Deputy; anticipation, sadness, desire, affection, and regret laced with nostalgia as a king's wine might be laced with poison. _' **My** Erik,'_ his pulse seems to sing, spurred instantly to a pursuer's gallop, _'It's been too long, my Only. My Own.'_

Ah, hope does spring eternal-- at least for primal instinct and the libido. Charles smiles ruefully, even as he undoes the top few buttons of his high-collared jacket. His neck may be flushed with heat, but his heart and mind know better by now. Long ago, in the trenches of a dozen hostile planets and numberless dirty little moons, Erik sometimes called Xavier his 'starry-eyed academic' or 'little Prince Hopeful'. Digs, both appellations, usually meant to accelerate a blazing row already in progress, but even in anger Lehnsherr's loyalties and grudging affection were clear. Now Erik doesn't call him anything if he can help it; they haven't spoken in (and the figure should not come so readily) twenty-three System Standard days. Only fourteen of these can be accounted for by his diplomatic travels. The rest don't hold a candle to some of Erik's more marathon arctic silences. Unable to gain admittance to his omega's chambers, Charles had been forced to make do with a brief goodbye via the intercom. He can pretend, if he wants to, that he only waited five minutes before assuming there'd be no reply. Thoroughly dedicated to making himself as scarce as humanly possible given the limited environment, Erik claims barely to notice if Charles is actually on-world or not. Yet there had been that trip, just after Saturnalia, when a fight culminating in screaming parting shots and closed doors

_('I even hate your doors,' Erik has said, on more than one occasion. 'All calm little pneumatic sliders-- can't you have the decency to give me something I can slam? Even your goddamn home is passive-aggressive!')_

had prompted Charles to leave without even attempted communication the morning after. He regretted it almost as soon as he was on the shuttle, of course, but in the moment his rationale had been that Lehnsherr simply didn't deserve another opportunity to freeze him out. He'd reached his destination-- an ice world that seemed practically balmy given his home life-- to find an irate transmission from Erik, and eventually returned home to kitchen whose computer had 'mysteriously' been reprogrammed to give him everything _but_ Earl Grey tea. As always, it had been a toss-up as to whether or not confronting Erik about the more childish expressions of the other man's profound discontent would be worth admitting that Xavier himself is hurt or annoyed.  
Not to mention enduring the 'but you _like_ knowing what you've reduced the face of the Separatist movement to' lecture. Mustn't forget that. 

In terms of this homecoming, the collar says everything about the type of welcome Charles is about to receive. 'Volatile' is a word he'd thought he'd understood during his brief tenure as biochemistry professor, but Erik has prompted some very thorough revisions of that notion. Among other things. Lifting the weighty ornament in his palm, Charles notes without surprise that arousal does nothing to mitigate the sudden hollow feeling which seems to rise from exactly the same place. The sensation of falling that somehow snakes its way upwards, not quite potent enough to devour its twin, desire. Harried and sleep-deprived, he now finds himself drained past withering. 

 

No matter how high your clearance, interstellar travel will never be anything less than a chore, especially given the rigid post-war security. With only three years of peace under their belts, Xavier will be the first to admit the Federated Systems cannot afford to relax, but that doesn't ease the burden and frustration on the part of the space-faring public, many of whom are still suffering displacement. Screaming children, bereaved bondmates, and rough-nosed war vets (from both sides) looking for even the most temporary of jobs combine with and outnumber the wealthy travelers who, in Charles' experience, are far more irksome. Former society darlings with their exotic pets, pampered omegas with their coterie of gentry attendants or guards, armigerous alphas irate that their mates have been stopped for a search-- all of whom might not have noticed the war if not for the current inconvenience. To say nothing of the former Separatist agitators carting vids and literature through customs; works that were banned under the Imperium and which political activists keep waiting to be stopped or arrested for to prove things haven't really changed. 

That's one of Raven's tricks-- or it used to be. Now she travels as a security strategist for a medical organization willing to dispense, among other things, omega birth control. A step up from confrontational muck-raking, as far as Xavier is concerned, and something that produces far more tangible good. Erik keeps pushing her to send narratives of her experiences, particularly those in which she, the doctors, or grateful omegas are harassed. 

"Oh, come off it, Charles," she'd said, the last time their paths had crossed on a layover satellite. "Tell me you couldn't pull some strings to ease your way through the travel rat-maze and I'll tell _you_ to pull the other one. You expect me to believe a member of our shiny new Congress has to stand in every one of these lines?"

"We wanted to do away with such cronyism," Charles had said, although she hardly needed reminding. "Be more egalitarian and limit professional political monopoly. Creating a new social elite that includes colonial citizens is no different from the privilege Prima Imperium used to enjoy."

"'The seeds of a dynasty's death are sown during its rise'," was her reply, along with the sharp hazel glance that dared him to note she was quoting Erik. "I'm just saying, you're asking people not to be… _people_. Especially when they remember the good life and know they can wrest it back."

"All but two members of the Transition Congress have agreed to public transit and personal funding of their own staff," he pointed out. Then, more quietly, "The little things do count, you know."  
The noise Raven made over her her drink left no doubt of her opinion on _that_.

 

For a moment, Charles closes his eyes-- trying to center himself, convince his body it is no longer hurtling across space at inhuman speeds or even across concourses at the limits of his own quadriceps. He has come to a stop, insofar as anyone in the galaxy ever does, and he can take a moment and anchor himself in if he must. He's overworked, but not demoralized, never mind the dizzying strands of interlocking political and socioeconomic dependencies still pulled painfully taut in the back of his mind.

'This will work,' he'd told his colleagues when they'd parted on Prima Nova. Among those drawn faces he'd spotted Hank and Armando, veterans who knew Charles well enough to read his strain and who had fought beside him long enough not to betray that knowledge. 'The road is incredibly difficult and fraught, but I believe we're doing the right thing. And, because it is the right thing, we will make it work.'

_'Because if you don't,'_ opines a cool, disinterested voice in his mind, all heavy rosewater scent to drown out the alcohol and opiate creme, _'then you will have sacrificed everything for nothing.'_ All gods and dignitaries of hell preserve him, that nasty edge of doubt sounds exactly like his mother. _'My little genius. You never could do anything practical to save your life. Or his, I suppose.'_ The Xavier heir-- disgraced and then reinstated, oh my!-- pinches the bridge of his nose and tells himself he need borrow no enemies from the dead. There are plenty of combatants amongst the living.  
One of them an adder he will never cease warming at his breast.

 

In the bright, day-equivalent lights of the common chamber, Erik's collar gleams in a connection of zig-zag patterns not unlike those of the Old Earth beast. The dark rhodium, worked to a high polish befitting a work of art, warms its metallic links in Charles' palm. The pearls-- black ones, of course-- also benefit from contact with the skin, not that this set gets much opportunity. Selecting a collar for his omega had very nearly driven Xavier to distraction, in spite (or perhaps because) of the fact any choice would be unwanted. He perseverated endlessly. Too elegant and minimalist and it might look traditional, as if he were hanging centuries of expectations around the other man's neck; hurtful to the omega, and something the public and media would be all too willing to misconstrue. If it even approached ostentatious, Erik would doubtless have something scathing to say about 'whores bought and paid for' (he's never shy about using _that_ word, knowing it sets his alpha's teeth on edge, particularly when used in regards to himself). Too small or plain and others might see Charles' claim as weak, and such is the only thing shielding Lehnsherr from the executioner's laser. The scholar's own 'radical' opinions on omega rights already make his fellow congress members very nervous, and there's a line he must give the appearance of carefully adhering to if he expects to get anything done. 

Even setting every single one of the previous factors aside would not have aided in the actual design of the collar, which Charles considers a sacred offering even if its recipient does not. He couldn't win, and he'd known that going in, finally settling on a series of ebony green pearls linked by glacial tourmalines in a setting that evokes branches of coral. ('A necklace of thorns,' is what Erik promptly came up with.) It is majestic and elegant in its final execution, commanding lines suited to some sea-god of old. The regalia of a sorcerer with a penchant for conjuring storms; a conquerer clad in oxidized iron. Lehnsherr's initial reaction to the gift had been his usual stoic anger, preceded only for an instant by a flinch of betrayal. Before the mask came down, with the urbane words of mockery to shore it up, that look of hurt had been so raw-- as if Charles had reached out and struck him open-handed. That, of course, was the worst. 

The collar-- now a talisman of everything betrayed and betraying between them-- is thus rarely worn, and Charles would never force the issue. Only during visits from the parole officer, Erik's lawyer, or on rare occasions requiring joint public appearance, does it grace that strong neck. Nothing can force the former assassin to truly bow, certainly no mere bauble. It functions only as a painful reminder, and as a signal. Who knows were Erik keeps it the rest of the time. Perhaps he puts it amidst the sanitary supplies necessary now that he is forced to endure omegan cycles. Somewhere that expresses his disdain, at any rate.  
Right now, the gleaming finery sends its message loud and clear: Lehnsherr's heat is upon him.

 

Instantly hard and hating himself for it, Charles forces himself to take a deep breath. There's nothing to scent in the clean recycled air of the common area, but he knows what's going to hit him once he activates the thumb lock for his own suite of rooms. Erik keeps a futon in his quarters, refusing to bed down regularly with either the alpha or his 'stench', but he buries himself in Charles' quilts the moment heat sets in. For a brief moment, Xavier considers a shower-- a very cold one, to punish the flesh that accepts no moral connotations for its appetites-- in the guest quarters. He's been in these clothes almost 26 hours. That's three hectic layovers and four long sleepless flights, since he has never mastered the ability to nap during FTS jumps. Like a gladiator with a particularly capricious patron, he has no idea if the colosseum doors will open next upon a feast or another fight. The only thing Erik resists more tenaciously than Charles is the heat itself. He won't surrender to his body's needs until he has to, and even then not gracefully.

Yet who knows how long this has been going on already? Logan, beta house manager and head of Charles' security, had met the returning diplomat on the landing pad to report (among other things) that Erik's biometric signature remained in his suite throughout the alpha's entire absence. The Federation-mandated ankle monitor is functioning nominally, but it does no more than ensure that it is in contact with living skin of the appropriate party. Unwilling to fuel the prisoner's paranoia or his list of grievances, Charles' own security systems accomplish only redundant verification: he doesn't even employ metrics that would notify him of a spike in body temperature. If Erik is willing to accept help, then the alpha refuses to make his bondmate wait a moment longer. But if he hadn't come home early… Well, it doesn't bear thinking about at the moment, given that civil discussions have no impact on Lehnsherr's flair for self-flagellation. 

One more breath of sober air and there's no going back. The door slides open with the faintest hiss, revealing the familiar angles of Xavier's library and office. No lights, and only the faintest of starshine from the wide portal on the far bulkhead. Graymalkin, while perhaps well-named, is not beautiful-- not like the sea-crowned world of Xavier's birth. This little piece of space rock real estate, the only thing Marko _didn't_ take when he swindled his stepson's inheritance, deals only in a loveliness that could be appreciated by the likes of Old Earth's Goya or Dore. The alarming, breath-taking symmetry of an airless silver hell, all ancient craters and spindles of rock jutting upward into the inky black. She's like a pincushion or a porcupine, his little moon-crumb. Revolving but not rotating, she grants lengthy views either of limitless ebon or the monstrous bulk of Icelos, the viridian gas giant which captured her eons ago. 

Two of three days of the latter in your viewport and you'll begin to feel watched, the focus of some cosmic cat's eye unblinking and set in the ichorous empty of space. Once the novelty of it wears off (quickly, given the period actually lasts three standard weeks), Charles generally keeps the ports closed. Erik, child of a desert world whose sky was dominated by at least one sun for months at a time, goes around opening them and pretending he's not trying to be irksome. The man doesn't even seem to _have_ the circadian rhythms artificial environments cater to. In these instances, Xavier clings to his equanimity, reminding himself it's still better than finding the dust-eaters have been reprogrammed to drop their pellets in his bedroom rather than the incinerator. If Lehnsherr has every right in the galaxy for his vitriol (and Charles will not deny he does), then he also has a right to express it in the manner of his choosing. The true day to fear is that in which the vestiges of the omega's old affection give way at last only to the cold, military precision which has gained him such infamy.

 

_(A voice, so hot and vibrant in his bones that it might belong to a lover, "Have you been drinking, little prince? You discount me so easily. I should kill you while you sleep."_

_He _has_ been drinking, throat burning with the fire he'd once hated on his mother's breath. Lava liquor-- numbs the senses, loosens the tongue. So he says, "You won't," and sounds more certain than he perhaps truly feels. Reaching out blindly, he clasps the other form close regardless, pathetically gratified when there is no resistance. He muddles forward with a statement unwavering in his personal cosmology, "The bond is sealed now. _Veritas_, and so very strong. It would take you with me."_

_"It's not that strong." Less the loving assassin now, more a child hazarding for reassurance in the dark. More brazenly, "I have never been afraid to die."_

_He finds skin, still only by touch; kisses it as a devotee of the Solar Lamb might kiss his cross. A hand-- powerful, deadly-- finds his sex slowly, as if drawn there by unwilling enchantment. Mind twirling in the receding tides of liquor, he coaxes the other hand to lay over his own heart and chuckles like a mourner at the graveside._

_"Oh, test it then, if you're so bloody certain.")_

 

He won't be coming across any unpleasant surprises this time, be they deadly or sophomoric. The scent is a bit stale, but Erik's pheromones linger in the room like the embers of burnt cloves. It's enough to make his canines ache, though the colloquial term 'fangs' is rather a hyperbole-- the teeth lengthen only fractionally when alphas are aroused. Pausing only long enough to set the automated privacy notice for his staff and message system, Charles lets the twin tethers behind heart and groin draw him forward. When the bedroom door slides open, the incense of Erik's desire is far more profound. Vetiver, cold stone, copper, and the faintest hint of cedar; headier than knocking back brandy, more invigorating than a dozen caff-shots. It doesn't really smell like that, of course. Just Charles' besotted hindbrain interpreting the aroma less biochemical triggers produced by his mate. But it's good, it's so good, and he was lost the moment he caught a whiff, muddled though it had been through Erik's fading blockers. Theirs is that fabled spontaneous bond, however cruel and perplexing that might seem. An ironic, duplicitous gift-- or else a gift whose inborn test has been failed, as when Prometheus endowed humanity with fire. What should be the ultimate intimacy, triggered by subconscious, chemical, or spiritual compatibilities the most ground-breaking scientists and religious scholars cannot explain, has frozen the friendship and affinity that once bloomed so readily between them. 

It is an experience most alpha-omega couples never have, for Charles was first entranced by Erik's intelligence, determination, and courage; bewitched (and sometimes completely exasperated) by the other man's dark humor and exacting moral code. All while the omega's intoxicating scent was still utterly stifled. A concoction of several pharmaceutical pheromone blockers-- many banned for health risks and all of them illegally obtained-- had rendered Lehnsherr as scentless as any Null. This shedding of one disadvantaged identity for another remains, in Charles' opinion, one of the most scathing indictments of their society. So of course it is a factor of Erik's 'pathology' ever single one of his detractors is in complicity to ignore. The restriction of and condescension to omegas is the rallying cry of every suffragist organization, while many of their members still revile Nulls for lacking a primary gender. Only male or female: half-formed.  
'I would rather be sexless,' Erik had said during the trial, 'if it meant being free.'

And who, be they a member of the Rebellion or Imperium Law Enforcement, ever had reason to doubt Lehnsherr's initial claim? He has done many things of which omegas are not supposed to be capable-- he was, and is, like no one else Xavier has ever encountered. Some of the alpha's dearest memories are of long stake-outs, midnight chess games, and hasty rest cycles cuddled up blamelessly against one another for warmth. _Hypaspistes_ , side by side on missions most people weren't crazy (or suicidal) enough to take. What a pair they had made! The warrior and former slave, ready to burn down the universe for change, and the disbarred academic radical who fought for freedom but refused to carry a deadly weapon. Thinking themselves jaded, all the while innocent (or ignorant) as babes in the woods. 

'Or I was,' Charles sometimes rails inwardly, during lonely meals or long chill nights. There's no need to lay blame, plenty to go around, but even he can't help it sometimes. He'll remember his omega's former solicitude, wounds bandaged and rations shared, and thinks, 'Erik, Erik. I didn't know, but what was _your_ excuse?'  
What a gentleman he is, to have such uncharitable and alpha-centric thoughts!

 

Everything about Erik's scent evokes _who_ he is, a beloved serpent sliding knowingly along his alpha's olfactory bulb, amygdala, and hippocampus, despite the fact very few memories are actually associated with it. The aroma is dear and perfect, and something Charles would willingly forfeit for the rest of his life if only he could turn back the clock. Of course, any trickster deity (and there are so many available in the pantheon) would time their visit right now if they were real, since Xavier would be hard pressed to think of anything save burying his face and the most potent source of his own scent in every single one of Erik's secret places. That lanky, chiseled form, so powerful even in repose, just begs the alpha to start at the toes and work his way up, kissing and nibbling.

 

'Steady on then,' Charles chastises himself, actually reaching back towards the doorframe for support. 'There's a good chap.' Breathing through his mouth doesn't fix things, but it does help. Timing his respiration, forcing it into a steady sedentary rhythm, does the rest. He would never simply fall on the other man like a starving tiger, even if Lehnsherr miraculously started embracing his heats. They are both more than the sum of their instincts, and he _will_ honor that.  
Moreover, Erik is not asleep.

He looks it; gives a clever appearance of slumbering, guiltless temptation in the crepuscular light of the twin blue glow-globes flanking the bed. How he can maintain such coiled readiness in repose is quite beyond Charles, but it is only the tip of the omega's strange, martial erudition. No one else moves as quietly as Erik, deflecting attacks with the sparest of motions, or springing to ready violence mere seconds from a rare sound sleep. He's seen Lehnsherr kill a man bare-handed with what appeared to be only negligible pressure at the base of the neck. Understanding may elude him, but by now Xavier can recognize the symptoms of his bondmate's watchful, half-meditative state. The diplomat does not move from the threshold now barred behind him and, after a moment, Erik opens one dispassionate eye, apparently tiring of the ruse.

"You're early," he says flatly. Charles nods, inwardly noting the other's restraint and lucidity. They're not far in, then, though estimates are always further muddled by Lehnsherr's irregular cycles and home-grown 'remedies'. Colonial medicine is often decades behind the former Imperium Standard (not that heat blockers are readily available even then) and omegas have learned to look after themselves. There's plenty of folk wisdom to hand down, ways to slow the tide of cycles even if they can never be staved off entirely. The human body, no matter its polymorphic alignment, is designed for self-preservation; a starving omega does not mate. Lehnsherr, no stranger to want and deprivation, stops eating the moment he senses the shift. He'll eat eventually, of course-- his subconscious knows food is truly available-- but not until the great sand dervishes of his want have swirled up high about him, so obscuring they leave him having half-forgotten the reason for his fast. Only then will he be content to lay his head in Charles' lap, nibbling fruit proffered between his alpha's fingers because all other energy has been spent. One thing truly unites them, though neither would believe it of the other: terror of their union. They stand in equal awe of and trepidation towards the separate being their togetherness seems to generate, where once they wished to exploit it in joint enterprise. Their desire for one another, the harmony they so incongruously achieve only when stripped bare, seems almost a wild thing.  
Bent on swallowing them both.

 

The same gravity which pulls moths towards immolation coaxes Charles towards the bed. Erik, sitting up on one elbow, fixes him with the stare of one consciously refraining from blinking blearily. 

"Why are you back?" he asks, instantly paranoid and sounding about as tired as Charles feels. Even if the empty caff-shot packages weren't littering the nightstand, their evidence lingers as a faint astringent chaser to the omega's scent. That's tip number two in the list of heat-cheats: don't sleep. Lehnsherr, who typically functions on a deficit of rest that would render most people useless zombies, will endure days of wakefulness in an effort to slow things down. Like everything else, it's a losing battle, but the former assassin doesn't lay his weapons down until his body _shuts_ him down. 

Unsatisfied with Charles' silence, Erik invents his own answer, "That hairy lummox you employ snitched on me." His eyes are narrow, hard as blue-gray steel. You'd think Logan was some stranger Xavier picked up off the space ways, not someone who fought along side both of them in the Rebellion's infancy. 

"No, Erik," Charles says, sitting on the far foot of the bed mostly because the other man will be further riled if he stands just there looking down at that naked form. He's beautiful, Charles' omega; like a nuclear sunset, or the deadliest of vibranium blades. Form and function in concert, an ancient weapon whose scars only add to its mystique. And there are so very many scars.

Some distant part of Xavier's brain-- one still pretending vague allegiance to logic-- moves the calculated timeframe forward a bit. While Erik is hardly self-conscious (no slave to propriety, he), the lack of even a single sheet is telling, especially given the quilts he's bunched up around himself in a little nest. His body is radiating heat like a furnace, rendering covers stifling no matter how much he may yearn for his alpha's scent. There's a fine tremble animating his entire form, the paradoxical chill he feels as his body drive's him to seek his mate's warmth. A silk robe-- also ostensibly Charles'-- lies across his arm like some sylph's abandoned skin, as though he at some point drowsed embracing it. 

 

"Already fucked your way through all the 'tweeners on Prima Nova then, have you?" Lehnsherr has a lovely smile, even at its most toothy and cruel. "That's what you get for inventing a Neutral Zone-- you can hardly expect them to be well-stocked."

"No, Erik." Even Charles is not above the instinctual and obvious rejoinder, 'and what do you care?', but he swallows it down. The dim, cool chamber is at least soothing, lent additional intimacy by the blue samite portieres, which have been drawn to block the greater portion of the room. Without the endless black porthole and its spray of infinitesimal lights, he and Erik seem to have less context, their definitions more dependent on each other than the worlds outside. An illusion, yes, but one takes comfort where one can. He's trying desperately to find something upon which to fasten his gaze, the fixed point one chooses to stave off dizziness. Anything that isn't Erik, Xavier's personal center of gravity even on the best of days, looking pale and rumpled and somehow still majestic despite the bed-tossed mess of his hair. A lock of chameleon auburn-- long since recovered from its prison sheering-- falls over the other man's forehead, tempting and inappropriately adorable. Needing to reach out, the scholar instead holds forth the collar coiled in his palm, offering. This, too, is part of their odd ritual, but Lehnsherr doesn't take the bait. He's still pondering what he considers his alpha's suspicious arrival, gaze turned inward as he dazedly selects and discards reasons. 

"Where you peeping, then?" The accusation comes out as a low, yawning growl, accompanied by an uncomfortable writhing sensation in the back of Charles' mind. The panicked motions of some delicate specimen fighting that which pins it to the slide. 

"I'm peeping now," Xavier remarks with dry innuendo. Erik's member lays half-hard in its thicket of hair, finely wrought and powerful as the omega himself. He's a bit lengthier than Charles, though he does not quite possess the same girth. Regardless, he's a splendid repudiation of every cliche regarding men of the 'gentler' polymorphism. While the alpha's sneaking affection for the organ may not be directly in service of 'biological imperative', lengthy heats require variety if one's mate is to come through both satisfied and in one piece. Moreover-- all puns about crossed swords completely _intended_ \-- it guards the way to Erik's core, and is almost as rich a source of that magnificent scent. Charles manages to avoid licking his lips, but he's hardly going to decline an obvious opening if Erik is determined to make a natural aspect of the _veritas_ bond sound as though he's the sort of person neighborhoods ought to be warned about. 

"Cheap shot," Lehnsherr says, in the tone of old chess games.

"You left yourself wide open."

Not to be deterred, his mate demands, "Well, did you?"

 

'How could I?' Charles wonders, having spent (as Erik also must) the last three years continually plagued by the equivalent of pains in a phantom limb. Bond-sickness. At least he and Erik can agree on their distaste for that term, and for society's tendency to anthropomorphize the bond itself. An affront to their mutual empiricism! All the more insulting for the fact its hard to find another way to describe the constant awareness of his mate. 'You're locked up so tight I'm surprised _you_ can navigate the maze you've raised against me,' he thinks, falling right into the philosophical trap. He half-wishes Lehnsherr might be listening, and would betray it by taking issue with the sentiment. In the end, because the present situation is still better than the agonizing years during which the nascent bond had gone unconsummated, he merely holds the collar out again and repeats, "No, Erik."

Lehnsherr accepts the strand of gems as he always does-- with the ginger motions of a snake-handler. Silence laps between them, its tide in the sound of their unmatched respiration. They won't be able to keep that up for long, finding themselves unconsciously draw in sync as even their involuntary processes betray them. For a moment, the scholar almost thinks Erik will forgo his typical shot off the port bow. 

"Is it meant to be a rocky shore?" the omega asks, pretending to examine the ornament. "The kind sea-ships once wrecked on, alluding to my barren state? Any seed washing up in me will find no harbor." Over twenty heats, and the other man still manages to come up with some truly unpleasant interpretations of an innocent design.

"You're reaching," Xavier replies, projecting a tolerant smile and wishing he could take more satisfaction in the way Erik's jaw clenches with frustration. Making a show of equanimity excuses him; he may rise and cross to the little auto-kitchen without appearing to retreat. "And," he continues, entering short-cut commands for items they both favor, "given your absolute abhorrence for symbolism, you'll understand how suspicious I find your choice of argument."

 

Glare or no, the weight of that green gaze is heavy on Charles' shoulders, seeming to mold against his back like a lover. Trading these glancing (and perhaps more palpable, but if they deceive each other they may as well deceive themselves) never ceases to heighten the surreal nature of what is already an altered state of consciousness. Erik _wants_ him; he can feel that want, a ravenous wish for physicality and connection, in every molecule of the room's recycled air. Heavy like honey, odor a thousand times more decadent, inviting a dedicated to tongue to lap away--

The dispenser whirs open, too loud in the charged atmosphere, presenting him with a cup of Earl Grey tea, a glass of juice, and a little cluster of vitamin cakes. Xavier gathers these on a tray and, when he turns, a part of him is genuinely surprised to find Erik still in the bed. The other man's desire manifests so clearly, flooding every one of the alpha's mundane and 'extrasensory' receptors to the point rational thought seems a poor prank. A wry, pained smile comes to his lips, which Charles extinguishes the same way Erik snuffs out a match. Swiftly, with no thought for the smarting heat on bare flesh. Most couples have ridiculous little in-jokes and subtextual cues, a mixture of marital shorthand and the psychic intimacy fostered by the beginning stages of heat. It's a disconcerting experience, even the health texts admit. Hormones and pheromones prime both parties for the event, leaving them bewildered and even more likely to cling to the only anchor present. 'A biological carrot and stick', the scientists cry; 'a unique miracle of the blessed estate of bonding!', retort the religious. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle where, in Charles' experience, it is usually found. 

( _'We don't all have the luxury of waiting,' Lehnsherr sneers, even in the days of perfectly friendly chess matches. Child of a world so barren it could not even be terraformed, roused as ever by the notion of resources and failure to ration correctly, even if such stores were ephemeral. "We don't always have enough breath to argue with the fist about our throats. You have to make a choice, one way or the other. Gray lies in the middle, my friend, nothing more.'_ )

There are mates on every world right now using this time as an excuse for sentimental indulgence and idle cosseting. Charles gets the sort of irreconcilable arguments that bring back too-vivid memories of university debate team. 

 

"Ah," says the omega, looking unruffled in dishabille as ever. "But you see, I am only interpreting the artist's intent." For a man whose inner being is the self-sustaining scorch of a lava upwelling, he's always very composed. Xavier has very rarely seen him fight with anything other than a frigid veneer of disinterest, and _he's_ usually the recipient of such anomalies. Best not attempt any interpretation of _that_.

Clearing the nightstand of littered, empty caff shots, Charles sets the tray down. Erik reaches past him briefly, very carefully avoiding skin contact, to set the collar on the far corner of the cleared space. The lack of physical interaction does not remedy the closeness of his scent. In fact, they both inhale deeply-- almost in tandem. Charles sees the other man's head dip briefly, as if to rub his cheek against his alpha's neck or shoulders, before he stops himself.

"I am no artist," the diplomat says, though he in fact provided the jeweler a rather poor but very particular sketch of what he wanted. He'll be damned to every version of hell-- from the traditional pantheon and otherwise-- before he admits that to anyone. He doesn't even trust Raven with that secret. Besides, with its function complete, the ornament seems like nothing more than a string of spent shell-casings. "And while you are many things, my friend, decorative is not one of them."

"Far from it!" Even Lehnsherr's wry laugh is unique-- brusque, the chuffle of a giant tiger or snow lynx. A rare ability, even amongst felines, if Charles remembers correctly. He thinks of taking Erik's thin but well-formed lips with his own, of drinking down the sound and bitterness, licking it out of that hot mouth. But no, no; he'll make so move until Erik clearly signals consent. 'I could fall upon you,' he whispers inwardly, across the metaphysical dark. 'Make the sinewy beast you mimic that of two backs; one creature, breathing together. I want to lave you with my tongue.'  
He sips his tea to remove the phantom taste.

"Then come off it," he says, wishing he didn't sound so waspish. He presses Erik to take the glass of juice and it is accepted reluctantly, though the speed at which it is drained betrays the other man's hunger. "If you're going to insult me--"

"--and I will--" Said between gulps.

"-- then I expect those insults to have at least _some_ intellectual rigor." As ever, when cornered, when feeling raw or exposed, Xavier falls back on the haughtiness that seems as much his unfortunate birthright as familial intrigue or a weakness for spirits. 

 

_('Poor little rich boy," Erik had crooned sardonically, upon seeing Charles' own collection of thin, white scars rained in chaos across his back. Such things were rather difficult to hide in the makeshift barracks of the rebellion. At University, Xavier had fabricated some amusing and appropriately shocking youthful escapade by which to explain these marks to his beta lovers. In truth, Marko had merely been a great enthusiast for the electric lash and, for the longest time, Charles had thought _that_ the reference behind the saying, 'You cannot change your stripes.'_

_"Such hardships you endured on your full stomach," Erik had continued, but his tone had become softer, The single finger which traced the mess of lines (Marko did not even have the decency to be orderly about such things) was careful, sympathetic. A whisper of calloused flesh that could almost pass for a kiss. The alpha had whirled around in the jerry-rigged showers, trying to glimpse his friend's expression without drawing the attention of the others, but Lehnsherr had already turned away.)_

 

"I've had forty two days to contemplate new insults, my friend." The former endearment is tossed out with casual disrespect-- worse than anger, for its implications of inconsequence. "I am just getting started."

Tea finished, Xavier makes some suitably impressed noise and contemplates the vitamin cakes. He should eat, but the rigors of travel-- to say nothing of his more carnal hungers-- have eclipsed his appetite. Better Erik should eat them all, anyway. If the omega is counting the last heat as forty two days prior, it means he has been trying to stave this one off only for about twenty four standard hours. ('Only' being a misleading qualifier; most omegas wouldn't make it past twelve without succumbing to sickness and desperation.) Years of blockers and numerous surgical intrusions have rendered Erik's heats very irregular and almost impossible to predict. 

"Go on then," he says, waving a hand permissively, whilst using the other to surreptitiously push the tray towards his mate. The returning traveler leans back a bit against the disheveled pile of pillows and quilts, his body throbbing with alternating bursts of want and exhaustion. 

"I don't perform on command," Lehnsherr says cooly, but he regards the other man now with a sort of watchfulness. Charles refuses to mistake this for concern. Erik leans over again, heedless of the tray (which thankfully does not spill) to caress the alpha's temple with a single finger. There is something very like compassion on his face and, after a moment, his other hand comes to play idly with the buttons on Xavier's dress jacket. Too close, too little, too much. Then all contact is withdrawn. 

"You should eat something, try to rest," the alpha murmurs. Pacing Lehnsherr once he gets started is a challenge, and a duty Charles takes very seriously. He cannot let himself fall under the mesmeric tide until after his omega succumbs, or he may later surface to face a mate bleeding and covered in love bites. Now matter how enthusiastically Erik may participate in raw fucking at the time, Charles invariably feels like the galaxy's biggest brute afterwards. The omega, in the meantime, makes no attempt to hide the marks or limp, exuding an air of vindication that alphas are the beasts many activists accuse them of being. 

"Rest is not happening at this point," Erik responds dryly, as if Charles is personally responsible for this.

"Eat then, I'm going to shower," he says, only because its better than 'you drive me crazy and I wish a I minded more.' Despair wars with giddy exhalation. The thickening pheromones may not be overwhelming Erik yet, but they're certainly doing a number on _him_.

 

Lehnsherr moves suddenly, a strike so swift Charles doesn't see it until moments before the other man's hands clamp down on his shoulders. Firm but not painful, he uses it to pull his mate to him, rolling them both on the bed until the alpha-- still fully clad-- is tucked beneath his naked, spartan form. The tray does not survive this latest upset, tumbling to the carpet in a spray of crumbs and collateral damage. Erik dips his head, nothing Charles' collar aside, inhaling deeply while the other man struggles to recall the mechanics of breathing. Erik's strength has always been a source of… fascination for the former aristocrat. While a participant of all the games (or rather, thinly veiled combat) of alpha boarding school and certainly further refined by war, Xavier's athleticism is a learned thing, rather than an intrinsic matter of survival. The weight of his mate, the acres of available skin, the fact he's being scented… Charles' soul spins vertiginously though his body lies flat, anchored. He cups Erik's skull, encouraging the olfactory examination. 

"No one else," Erik murmurs, having examined both armpits (always equally uncomfortable and erotic) and returning once more to the column of Charles' throat. There's some wiggling as he works to get a hand between them, loosening buttons and tossing the Federation pin-- fifty five tiny, brilliant stones set behind a cameo of balanced scales-- away in both expedience and disdain. 

"No one else," Xavier echoes, only tangentially aware of the actual subject and its lunacy. Mustering attraction for a third party is very difficult for those in a _veritas_ bond. And again, only the Nameless G-d knows why Erik would care.

 

"You make me insane," Lehnsherr hisses, speaking Charles' earlier thought aloud. Is it cross-contamination-- plucked from the mutual pool of the bond-- or is it just coincidence? "I _hate_ …" But he doesn't finish, leaving Xavier to draw his own conclusions. The words are hot, wet with strain and feeling, where they are muffled against Charles' throat. The alpha molds his mate closer, taking the brunt of the weight, stroking the brown-bronze hair as one might soothe a child. It hurts to hear that, of course it does, but its not an unknown fact and, at this point, the splinters are in so deep the skin may as well grow over them. There's no resistance to the way Charles now has himself practically wrapped around the other man. If anything, Erik presses closer-- but when the omega pulls away his face is as composed as ever. A perfect mask, not even a hint of red or damp, if either were ever present. Such a visage should be reflected in marble; Erik the conquering general, or Erik the prophet, revered on worlds untold.  
Which is exactly what everyone-- the Imperium, the mainstream rebellion-- is afraid of.

Lehnsherr buries his fingers in Charles' long hair, combing the dishevelment of travel. He does not wear it pulled back, as is the current fashion amongst alphas. The 'style' is the result first of preoccupation (much outranks grooming in the pressure of the trenches) and then of the knowledge his mate derives at least some tactile enjoyment from it. He shaved the beard shortly after the trial though, uncomfortable with Erik's observation (unhelpfully echoed by Raven) that he looked quite the picture of the virile, 'swash-buckling stag hero'. In truth, the omega's fascination with the long strands is a not-so-secret delight. The attention never fails to result in waves of pleasant tingles, accompanied by an almost sleepy sense of peace and languor. 

Xavier's turgid member feels engorged to the point of ridiculousness, so pressing its needs feel paradoxically distant. He does not flinch under the stoic regard, but he does-- albeit peripherally-- wonder. It is rare for the other man to address their situation so directly, at least nowadays. Erik deals mostly in thinly veiled barbs that focus on philosophical or political objections, rather than anything involving emotion. 'Feelings' are not his pleasure or his strong suit. There are still days, however, when he looks on his bondmate as he does now-- with concentration more suited to some esoteric tome. As if he can read some inscription in the darkness of Charles' pupils which even the man himself cannot translate. 

"You could not even allow me a warrior's death," Erik observes quietly, smudging a kiss against the other man's cheek.

 

Like a fool, Charles tips his head up, hoping for a meeting of lips. But no, he must make do with Erik's jaw. _'The thought of your death terrifies me,'_ he mourns inwardly, knowing there is nothing he can say which will be accepted-- by Erik, and perhaps by himself, _'but it was never my intention to make you live like this, either.'_ Molasses slow, his thoughts; he certainly _hopes_ he didn't say any of that out loud. In the past, he has not withheld this admission of the truth-- they are too far past pride for that, now-- and so he knows from experience that the sentiments would be exceedingly unwelcome. 

In one of those lightning-quick mood changes which put Xavier again in mind of summer squalls, Erik suddenly sports a rather sardonic grin. He moves a leg between both of Charles'; such marvelous pressure, and the feel of his omega's hardness, to boot. If he's leaking, to say nothing of his slick, it will be _all over_ the diplomats dark dress pants in very short order. That thought accomplishes the seemingly impossible feat of exciting the alpha even further. He's certainly doing his part to make a mess from within. The trousers will smell of both of them, and quite strongly. Charles enjoys the evidence of Erik's affections, even if they are only those of the physiological sex act. He must remember to kick them under the bed or behind the nightstand at some point, for Erik is scrupulous in ordering the house 'bots to launder everything, sheets and all, the moment he wakes up clear-headed. Charles has been unceremoniously dumped out of bed a few times as the automata go about their tasks. 

 

He's grinding himself shamelessly into Erik's thigh now, inadvertently bumping the ankle monitor as his own legs seek purchase. Lehnsherr grunts, though its difficult to tell if the source is irritation or merely satisfaction in his own share of the friction. A hand slides to cup the alpha's cheek, baritone voice delivered quietly into the shell of his ear, "You do, though, don't you?"

Dazed, Xavier can only stare questioningly at his mate, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the fog which seems at once urgent and languid. 

"Perform on command," Erik clarifies, the satire of his smile somewhat ruined by his need to punctuate that statement with mouthings against the other man's carotid. 

"Is that an invitation?" Xavier asks, rather shocking himself with clear articulation. It's likely due to sheer desperation, but he takes pride in the it never the less. He would never take Erik without obvious consent (as debatable as that word is in the context of heat), though the atavistic desire to lay siege to his mate, the prey he wishes to cosset and adore, is scathingly profound. 'Let this be it,' he petitions any and all powers, both damning and divine. They've had their little ritualized fencing match and they will continue their combative embrace in ways more base still, but let this be the barb that slices honor's bindings. 'Unbind my hands and I could devour you, darling,' he thinks, 'take you inside me where I can keep you close and safe.'

"It's an observation," the former assassin growls, leaning heavily on one elbow. Is he reaching back to finger himself? By all various names of hell! "You have one fucking job to do right now, so _do it_!"

"A fucking job fucking," Charles chuckles, drunk on the other man and unable to censor himself. 

"Your fondness for puns has never been endearing." Perhaps it is only a shadow, but those thin lips do seem to twitch faintly at the corners. Taking advantage of the omega's current precarious balance, Charles surges upward, rolling their entangled forms until he is astride the taller man. Erik had indeed begun playing with that secret little niche, and he barely moves his hand in time to avoid landing on it awkwardly. Taking those fine, long fingers onto his own, the scholar licks away the moisture-- obscene in his thoroughness and thoroughly obscene. This complete, he shrugs quickly out of the fine pewter jacket, toeing off his shoes and letting all articles join the already significant debris on the floor. That's all he or his partner have patience for, though Lehnsherr plucks once or twice at the buttons of the lilac shirt beneath. Too much bother, and the silk is already damp with the sweat of excitement. 

"Such harsh tasks you set me to," Charles murmurs, stroking Erik's waist. Never bound, as is still the unfortunate fashion for omegas on certain planets, but slim and strong as you could wish. Erik cants them up a little in his alpha's grip, as if to say, 'well, get on with it'. The brusque, demanding look on his face is somewhat ruined by the darkness of his eyes, the way his lips part as if to sip anticipation. 

Charles veils his own gaze for a moment, contemplating treasures found and those denied. In truth, his most dearly held fantasy is simple and distressingly naive. He would wish only that Erik come to him outside the cycle's peak-- this wheel to which they have both been lashed-- for a meal, or even for those few minutes the diplomat takes to unwind after mounds of daily paperwork. They might play chess; they _would_ argue, but in their old manner. Verbal fencing, as pithy and challenging as the manner in which they once chased each other's queens. Hardly the scene of explicit debaucheries which might be expected of an alpha, but there it is. He may be an idealist, as many accuse him, but he knows impossibility when he sees it. Erik has been his tutor in 'no win' scenarios. 

The sensuality they are left with-- this chaotic passion preparing to bear down upon them both-- is not unwelcome. In lieu of Erik's soul, Charles will take the song of his cries and his wanting, will drink deep of every filthy, reverent thing he may lay at his beloved's feet. 

 

"I fear you must indulge me," he tells his mate sweetly. No saint, and not the well-mannered school boy he's currently playing at, either. "As you said, it's been forty two days since I've last had my mouth on you. I must confess, I'm _famished_ for the taste." 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> [+] _Hypaspistes-_ (Greek) 'shield-bearer', Macedonian infantry guard. In this fic, a person one considers an equal and comrade.  
>  [+] _veritas_ \- after the Roman goddess of truth. In this 'verse, a spontaneous true bond triggered by genetic/spiritual compatibility (depending on who you ask), as opposed to a bond arranged for political purposes.  
> [+] **Icelos** \- son of Nyx (darkness), primordial Greek personification of nightmares. I figure human beings will keep up the tradition of naming planets after deities no matter how many pantheons they have to go through. ;-)  
> [+] _Null_ \- in this fic, the three traditional genders (alpha, beta, omega) have seen a new divergence of rare births in which the person has only 'secondary' sex characteristics-- i.e., only male or female.  
> [+] _'tweener_ \- slang term in this universe for a beta or younger alpha in 'drag' as an omega, basically the only opportunity alphas have for pre- or extra-marital intercourse.
> 
> **Coming up:** Rimming, biting, and butt-plugs (oh my!). More insight into Erik's situation, plus anything else inspired by comments/suggestions.
> 
> As always, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read my story. If I could bother you a bit more to comment or kudos, I'd be very appreciative. I'd love to hear what you think, even if it's just 'more porn!' or a message from your keyboard-hopping kitty. ^_~


	2. Accelerant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … Someone put plot in my porn. I swear I only looked away for a second! ^_~ 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Very brief mention of institutionalized slavery, dubious consent and kink negotiation discussed in the context of a/b/o, brief religious reference (more for literary reasons than anything else-- Shophtim [Judges] 14:14).  
> Additional Warnings/Enticements: Brief blood-sharing, knotting (your author sadly did not get to the butt-plugs this chapter -_-'), biting, prostate milking, dream bondage, aftercare. Erik is (as usual) up to no good.

"As you said, it's been forty two days since I've last had my mouth on you. I must confess, I'm _famished_ for the taste." 

For a wonder, Erik has no biting rejoinder. Though he does twirl his index finger in that universal sign to 'move along', the affectation of boredom is unconvincing. There's a tilt to his chin Charles has seen a thousand times, be the challenge mere game or fight to the death. Xavier slithers down the naked form, enjoying the contrast between flesh and his own clad state. Not because this implies some sort of vulnerability on Erik's part or conveys any advantage for the alpha, but because it so clearly delineates his chosen role. "I should be delighted to service you," he continues, whispering the tender threat into the cup of his lover's navel. 

_Erik_ is to be the sole recipient of pleasure at the moment, a being both commanding and enticing worship. He carries himself always with such confidence, no matter how much or how little he wears. (Lehnsherr actually _fought_ naked once, a thought that inspires both awe and a prickle of possessiveness.) Charles does not stop to kiss any of the various scars he passes, landmarks on the map of precious skin. That is an indulgence for later, when Erik is adrift in blissful haze, so used and still wanton that caresses to the most innocuous areas draw forth cries of agonized pleasure. It's the now turgid length of the omega's member at which he lingers; all kisses, nibbles, and pettings of the flushed skin. He nuzzles it, suckling the head, taking time to appreciate the interesting differences from his own-- the result of customs Lehnsherr's people have carried all the way from Old Earth. Even before being rendered so desperate as to accept any show of affection his mate might give, Charles was never one for traditional alpha-omega normatives or power dynamics. He'll suck the omega off at some point during the proceedings (there's an additional transgressive thrill to it, for him) but, despite the enthusiastic reactions of the organ, he knows that's not quite the stimulation Erik needs right now.

 

"Do you _mind_?" the other man inquires, hoarsely and rather on cue. He glares at Xavier, shimmying up so he can take advantage of the pillows, and looking as though the alpha's affection for his phallus indicates some sort of collusion between the two. Charles smiles, diving further down rather than obeying the hands that try to draw him back up. It's so wet, the core and primary source of that perfect scent. Beyond any hope of scientific mindset, he allows himself the intense satisfaction that no one else will ever know this intimate aroma. It's not a matter of beastly jealousy or possessiveness

_(though he thinks of Erik as his, and began doing so long before he had any inkling of the truth. _His_ Erik was different somehow, obscurely both softer and more harsh than the soldier others interacted with.  
'_You_ go tell him,' they said, whenever bad news was abroad. 'You know how to deal with him. The rest of us like living.')_

but a sheer physical impossibility. Only Charles can perceive his _veritas_ mate this way, and only Charles can feel the strains of 'want/trepidation/adore/need' seeping through the bond despite dedicated control on at least one end. The sheer, vital warmth of animus can never be fully revoked, but the diplomat does normally adhere to certain rules laid out between them. If one can call ultimatums thrown out during shouting matches-- many of which made sessions of the Provisional Congress look tame-- an organized code.

 

For now, flicking an ardent tongue into that dear little hole, he's open to whatever emanations might make their way past Erik's rigorous shielding. He figures it's found treasure; fair salvage. Dedicating himself with gusto, he narrows his own focus down to the taste and texture of his lover, and to the slow mutual pulsing of their minds. As the 'heart' shape is a cliche rendering of both organ and idea, so too is the bond a psychological crutch for visually obsessed humanity. In moments like these, Charles envisions it as a patch of foreign soil in the landscape of his own mind, a bed of earth in which something struggles for (against?) growth in a radically different clime. It is nearly always still, this part of Erik that exists within Xavier though, as earlier, it is sometimes betrayed by surreptitious stirring in the deep roots. On those rare occasions, Charles can very easily lose track of objective reality, instinctively abandoning the outside world to chase down the timeless and fleeting sensation. Like that exotic carnivorous flower of which bioengineers are so proud; ' _dens rosa fatalis_ ', prized for rarity, beauty, and the ability to bite those who tend it. 

The omega's sighs are far from biting at present, nor are the aspersions he casts on Xavier and the legitimacy of said alpha's birth possessed of any real heat. There's too little breath to shore them up, though the curses are a veritable linguistic cornucopia. Standard invective mixed with colonial slang, and heavily peppered with that mutation of Hebrew particular to Erik's home world. Xavier has no fluency in the latter, but feels relatively certain of meaning based on context. Whining, his lover pushes up against the wet and flexible invader, the heated sound more than making up for the awkward angle Charles' neck is distantly protesting. Braced with palms flat against the rumpled bedclothes, he's unsurprised and rather pleased when Erik's fingers come down to claw ruthlessly at the hands of the erotic tormentor. Cursing with increased creativity, Erik strains upward for more stimulation, movements fluid even in this extreme. He is not gentle as he rakes nails against the back of his mate's hands, and Charles shudders even as he maintains his firm, unhurried rhythm. It is an expression of his own delight-- the spice of pain added to the rich, mulled flavor of arousal. It also inspires a deep satisfaction of which Erik must always remain ignorant. Xavier will very shortly lick the blood from those well-trimmed nails and, more importantly, shall be wearing gloves in public for the next week or so to hide the damage. Thankfully, such accessories are once more fashionable. Their inconvenience (which delights Lehnsherr) is actually negligible to their wearer, and more than worth the souvenir

_(trophy-- dear gods, my love, have you conquered me so thoroughly that even my wounds are precious?)_

of this intimacy. Proof of passion, if not affection, for when Erik goes to ground. How cross he'd be to know Charles is aroused by the transitory lacerations! They can be particularly comforting on those occasions when he has what is colloquially referred to as a 'top drop'. The scholar would not have pegged himself as one susceptible to that particular pitfall of dominance, but there's no shame in it regardless of certain outdated but prevalent perceptions of 'alpha-hood'. He will therefore take his easements where he finds them.

 

Eventually, he does trap the fleshy scorpions, lacing his fingers with Erik's to halt the attack. The omega's grip is a fist, as if he believes he must pry his orgasm from his diligent lover. A heel lashes out, beating a brief tattoo against Charles' back, pulling on the lilac silk now sealed to his flesh by sweat.

'Such strain, my love,' the alpha thinks. Then, a promise as silky as the inner walls he laves, 'Be at ease. You need only wait, and I will hurry your pleasure to you.' His jaws ache, gums not far behind in livid protest given the effort of holding back his fangs. Drawing back and tugging a hand free, he gives the palpitating bud one last kiss, an adroit finger coming to penetrate the slick channel. He's rendered the entrance sloppier still with his own saliva; it yields while Erik keens. What he's looking for is easy to find-- the ease of experience, of reading those shades of flush on his mate's face-- and a delight to stroke, the flavor of it earthy and voluptuous on his tongue. Lehnsherr tastes nothing like he smells, since biochemical and perceptive trickery only extend so far, but the alpha hardly minds. Something about the texture, the essential salty musk, gives him a thrill at once reverent and transgressive. As a young buck, he'd bent over illicit folios on omega sexuality-- be they disguised as art or science-- and marveled at the expressions inked on the tender, cosseted prey. So akin to agony, the rictus of these lovers, even as they clung to their alphas in obvious relish. His adolescent fascination occasionally bordered on horror at the depth of intimacy-- but oh! how it pleases him to bring such debaucheries to Erik.  
Like little gifts. 

 

"The things I want to do to you," he says, applying at last that perfect and very specific pressure. By this he of course means, 'the things you do to me'. And so often with only a glance.

"Water-wasting bastard!" Erik howls in release, cock jerking in a vestigial expulsion of inactive seed. Xavier promptly helps himself to this as well. The insults of a desert world notwithstanding, he's happy to take his mate's advice and ensure the moisture does _not_ go to waste. He's not nearly as frivolous as the other man might think. His finger stills as he watches the storm of pleasure flicker across Lehnsherr's face, each spasm a sustained bolt of lightning, but leaves the digit encased in the tight sheath. After a collection of moments (one-two-three, two-two-three), Charles begins milking the little numb through two more after-shock orgasms, carefully watching his partner and 'listening' for signs of discomfort through the bond. Omegas are quite capable of multiple climaxes even if-- in the case of males-- certain organs do not always participate in the encore. 

Deft, attentive, he ceases only when he can tell the stimulation is nearing the fine edge of bodily protest, where pleasure tips over into pain. Erik shudders with one last ripple of satisfaction, as supine and relaxed as he was taut and straining just moments ago. The lightest beads of sweat dapple his angular form-- despite the exertion, his body is as economical with moisture as the man himself. In old habit, the omega even dips his fingers along the notch of his own collar bone, loathe to waste the salty liquid even in this heady trance.

 

Xavier observes all of this in the dim blue glow of the room, divesting himself of the legs thrown over his shoulders and nuzzling the back of each knee as he helps his mate stretch out more comfortably. His own sweat-soaked shirt is the next to go, a puddle of ruined finery on the floor. The alpha himself is still hard, mouth watering at the memory of those slick, powerful muscles massaging and contracting around his fingers. The tumescence is at once all-consuming and utterly immaterial. He wants Erik, wants to sink into the other man with a single thrust and the alacrity of one truly returning home. Pacing during heat is essential however, and none of Lehnsherr's vociferous protests change the fact that it is Charles' duty to protect his bonded. Even and especially from himself. Alphas who approach this vulnerable time with only their own satisfaction in mind-- or, worse still, think the cycle renders their omega the 'perfect whore'-- are lower than beasts. Nature rarely tolerates or even allows for intimate violence, though the pathologies of sentience sometimes prove stronger.  
That is humanity's special curse. 

 

_("And yet we're supposedly the apex of evolution," Lehnsherr muttered ruefully, leaning close so Charles could hear him over the band's truly hideous rendition of 'Alpha Get Angry'. Some dive on an industrial colony, back when lies seemed to make their lives so simple and clear. "Plenty of species are more pragmatic. Many insects simply eat their mates."_

_"The lower orders do tend to be dimorphic," Charles remembers saying, trying to appear nonchalant while scanning the bar for their informant. "They haven't developed the specialization that has allowed us to be so successful." He flinched, wondering if he'd offended the man he thought was a Null. A throwback, many would say. That wasn't what he meant-- just another example of what Raven called his 'fatal case of foot-in-mouth disease'. "Of course," he added quickly, almost apologetically, "many other highly evolved mammals aren't polymorphic."_

_"Lucky them." A drink was shoved rather forcefully into the alpha's hand, but Erik hadn't seemed _too_ insulted on behalf of his minority. Xavier assumed he was more irritated with the scholar's placating attempt to walk the thoughtless comment back than anything else. "For water's sake, Charles!" The tone, at least, is good natured. "Eat your chips and have a beer. I'll be the look out-- you're too _verdammt_ obvious."_

_"It's just that the bond, a textured emotional and intellectual connection, is something our primitive ancestors could never have imagined," the scholar had said, knowing better yet still unwilling to let the argument go. "That-- along with the specialization of protector, worker, and nurturer-- has been the greatest gift of polymorphism." He did take Lehnsherr's advice on the recon, however, focusing instead on the other man's expression. He found Erik's closed yet mobile face fascinating, especially when they were engaged in debate._

_"How lovely to be trapped in a role by sheer accident of birth, especially with such 'romantic' drivel for justification." The assassin's smile was distant and anything but kind. His friend shuddered, unthreatened but knowing exactly which of Erik's demon ghosts inspired that particular mirthless look. "Rather like being combined to a caste--" an unsubtle dig at Charles' homeworld, "--or considered genetically inferior due to one's ancestry."_

_Xavier was himself somewhat stunned by his own blundering insistence on pursuing the subject, half expecting his runaway mouth to continue a cycle of circuitous clarifications until he disappeared up his own philosophical ass. "What I mean is--"_

_"Do quit while you're ahead, dear," his friend suggested. Despite these words, the light in Erik's eyes clearly betrayed he was-- as always-- enjoying the rare occasion in which Charles was so thoroughly flustered._

_"An omega might not _need_ protection," the scholar finished lamely, "but it is still an alpha's sacred duty."_

_"Fine," Erik replied with a thin smile and a one-handed mimic of 'praying mantis' claws. "They can provide dinner, too.")_

 

"Get up here," the omega says presently, jerking Charles from his thoughts. Quite literally, too. With both hands fisted in long auburn hair, Erik seems perfectly willing to haul Charles up by it if need be. " _Yafeh, ani zkuka lekha_ … You miserable-- why do you--" he's still fighting to calm his breathing, shivering delightfully where ever Xavier touches his skin. "_Fuck_, get up here!"

Charles is happy to obey, though he inwardly marshals his restraint. Erik is far from 'under', as the slang goes, meaning it is not safe for the alpha to lose control either. Only if they are both in sync-- mentally, spiritually, or however else you want to parse it-- is it possible to let go without risking psychological damage to one another. Level with his mate once more, he is pleased to have his mouth taken in an emphatic kiss. Deliquescent from the pleasures lavished upon him and still trembling with reaction, Erik is easy enough to coax on his side. Face to face, Charles embraces the taller man without breaking their union of mouths. Stroking and petting the other form, his own nerves alight with the knowledge Lehnsherr cannot avoid tasting the remnants of his own seed and slick. They press against one another, less for friction than for the feel of skin on skin, though Charles' demanding phallus is now nearing the edge of pain. 

'Easy does it,' he admonishes, addressing all parties involved. Which of course includes those organs occasionally believing themselves to be autonomous. He's almost rocking Erik a little in his arms, fingers adroitly seeking out those places of special sensitivity. The base of Lehnsherr's neck, the articulation of his jaw. 'Slow and careful, just as always.' _Then_ his delicate tracing of skin may draw towards its alluring and ultimate goal: the faint, barely perceptible crescent cluster of scars that compose Erik's bonding mark. The impression of Charles' own teeth in flesh which, unlike a collar, may not be eschewed or removed. His bondmate effects quite a bit of high-necked clothing these days, giving the impression of a decorous omega virgin he never displayed when he actually was one. Like everything Erik does, it is both practical and painfully theatrical. It isn't as though the scar is visible from afar, but the former separatist does love to execute his rebellions by skewing traditional framework. Certainly, the mark he highlights through scrupulous concealment is not as livid as those left by the violence of others, nor Charles would not have it so. Xavier tells himself-- in a catechism repeated so often it feels like grace said before meals-- that it is enough to know the bonding scar is there, and lets the war between his intellect and basil ganglia rage on as though beneath his own notice. Part of the alpha, the vast majority in fact, would see to it that _no one_ ever touches his mate again; in his more primal moments, he can barely tolerate the presence of the ankle monitor. The other is quietly maddened that his own claim is so small and pale in comparison to the evidence of so many others, and seasons this lunacy with hatred for himself.

 

_('Used hard and put away wet', Erik said, smirking. Naked and utterly unconcerned by this fact, he stood just as he must have on the auction block, every inch on display. He would have been child of only twelve then, the parchment of his body would already forced to carry certain callous inscriptions of the whip. With their second mating hovering palpably about them, Lehnsherr had tossed out the remark as a challenge, once daring Charles to trip over the precipice of explaining himself. 'Try to do so without sounding like an ass,' every line of his body declared, 'just **try** '._

_Unable to justify any of his actions to himself much less anyone else, there had been nothing the alpha could say. His faulty reasoning was clouded further still by how maddening such self-deprecating remarks had been even when Lehnsherr was 'only' his friend. The difference in that second heat-- for sanity's sake, he avoids thinking about the first-- had been his empowerment to _do_ something. As they tackled one another to the bed, he'd taken appropriate action; kissing each mark, murmuring reverence and the prohibition that Erik must never, never, speak of himself that way._

_A mistake, acknowledged as the omega triumphantly continued, "Are you such a fool that you allow yourself to be swindled, accepting damaged goods?" The words might have been grasped out amidst Erik's own groans of pleasure, but they where defiant. It set the stage for their intimate warfare, caresses and words of devotion their weapons of choice. As ever, it remained unclear what either of them hoped to prove.)_

 

With his typical reaction to any cosseting, Lehnsherr snarls out of the kiss, jerking his neck at an awkward angle in an attempt to to evade that particular touch. They are too close, still clutching one another in other ways, for this to be successful. Charles merely fingers the scar again, 'seeing' it with his fingers the same way he was trained to read books in the dark-- by the faintest raised traces of ink. 

" _Yalla_! Erik cries huskily. An imperative, or so Xavier assumes from context and exposure. He has never asked the house computers to translate anything his mate says during heat. Why court disappointment, or even disaster? " _Kapara alecha_ \-- damn your caution, _yalla_!" The final exclamation is pressed into Xavier's mouth along with the omega's frustration. An agile tongue, perhaps more dangerous and adroit than even the diplomat's, invades with delicious insistence to draw forth a complimentary moan. Before Charles can think beyond sucking on this new and entrancing treat, Erik runs the flexible muscle along his alpha's gums, flicking against a chosen canine. Jerking in reluctant and alarmed ecstasy, Charles tries to disengage, finding the back of his skull cupped like a chalice in one of those powerful hands. By now Lehnsherr is all but performing fellatio on the fang, drawing it forth to impale his own tongue and lower lip.

'Damned, as he said,' Charles thinks with his last fading shred of sense. Erik's blood is warmer than all the warmth that has drawn Xavier to this precipice. Coppery, as all such fluid, it is yet infinitely priceless, carrying the omega's satisfaction at the madness he has just unleashed. 'Damned, and in check.'

Then, as the addition of certain metal powders may result in purple or crimson flame, the two lovers merge, react, and drag one another down to burn.

* * * * * *

Charles wakes still subsumed in Erik's warmth, beneath him and around him. The omega is sleeping sprawled on his stomach across the wide bed, with Xavier drawn across his back like a living blanket. The surrounding debris field of quilts and cushions provides just enough support to prevent the alpha from stifling his lover with his weight. Fully seated in that luscious arse, Charles can feel the swelling of his knot beginning to abate-- doubtless what woke him from a sleep whose engrossing and now-banished depths seemed punctuated only by distant, exhausted echoes. That rhythm is still with him, rolling as it does through the form upon which he rests. Asleep, one of Erik's hands has captured his, their fingers laced together with the larger palm covering what feels like a thorn-bush worth of scratches. The diplomat shivers pleasantly, the vibration communicated to his lover with increasing bliss, even as he begins to frown. The minor wounds may be his secret prize, but any damage his omega might have sustained is highly undesirable.  
And unremembered.

 

_(There are, predictably, the fading wisps of dreams-- the sort whose tattered remnants become more distant the very moment one seems close enough to catch hold. Lovely coolness surrounds him, that which is attainable only when the body senses some great merciless heat held at bay. The dichotomy multiplies itself further in the sweet, drugging warmth of Erik's hands, which sweep up and down Charles' form with confident and unapologetic intent. There is a pressure on the alpha's wrists; his hands are bound and drawn above his head to afford his mate better access. Hard, so desperately hard, he stands on his knees amidst a pile of strange, scaled-velvet hides while Lehnsherr touches him with a covetousness not the least bit eased by possession. The light is dim and the environs echo oddly, but Charles is alive only for the palms and fingers that play him like a bone lute. _Erik_ is caressing him, handling him with purposeful awe as he has never done in waking life. No fear of preconceived notions or consequences here, just worship burning the threads of his restraint the way Xavier so often struggles with his own desire to consume. 'Modern' notions or no, the diplomat flushes at being so physically bound and vulnerable, a shiver his omega sets to soothing away with a deep chuckle.  
"There," that baritone murmurs against Charles' own unmarked carotid. As if the shorter man is one of Lehnsherr's metal sculptures, which must be lovingly coaxed into its potential shape. " **There**.")_

 

With admitted effort, Charles shrugs off the bizarre conjuration, telling himself it matters not. Dreaming of better days is a cliche he has trained himself out of-- he certainly hopes his subconscious wouldn't opt for the more virulent poison of concocting unbalanced fantasies from whole cloth.  
Who knows, at any rate, what nonsense might be engendered by such reckless blood-sharing?

"You bastard," he murmurs, kissing the nearest available patch of Erik's skin. True short term recollection consists only of kaleidoscopic images cast in shades of red and want, the only punctuation that of his beloved's cries. A flash of green as Xavier turned his mate's head with a gentle grip; the atavistic gratification at observing the near-eclipse of dark pupils, and the needy flush riding high of chiseled cheeks. The omega-- _his_ omega-- had gone under; pliant, trusting, following Charles' lead in a contented waltz. Every beat bid the alpha pull his dear one closer, every corresponding move on Erik's part communicated only a desire for what his lover chose to give him. No longer frenzied, he'd lain beneath Charles as one ensorcelled, all choice of timing willingly relinquished. Eyes half-lidded, lips relaxed into that little parting of languor, Lehnsherr had accepted Charles' thumb to suck in tandem with the earnest thrusting into his channel. Yet now the alpha thinks he also remembers blood around those lips, something which only spurred the fires of his satisfaction in the confines of the moment. 

Lifting his head now, he quickly encounters visual confirmation of the memory. The 'house'-- sensing both occupants of the room had lapsed into slumber-- has dimmed the lights even further, but the stains are too significant to mistake for shadows, especially on a face he knows so well. There are also deep scratches on Erik's biceps and the shoulder upon which Xavier has been resting his cheek. He pets the nearest one with a light, apologetic finger, not disguising his heavy sigh. Conscience having surfaced along with consciousness, the stab of guilt softens his knot enough to withdraw completely, though he can't help but twitch when Erik whimpers sleepily at the loss. The hand holding his own tightens, seeking 

_(to bind. do you like that, neshama, to be held open and quivering as I constantly am for you?)_

reassurance, but Lehnsherr stirs no further. The exhaustion between heat rounds is the only thing that ever makes the former assassin sleep as though dead to the world. He even snores a little at such times, which Charles finds absurdly adorable. It's a humanizing detail for someone who does his best to project almost operatic villainy. 

 

Erik is not a villain, though Xavier sometimes wonders if he's the only person in the galaxy who knows that-- including the man himself. Who could watch Lehnsherr rail against expoiltation-- outright slavery, the 'bride-bartering' of omegas, the stifling corporate control of so-called 'company' planets whose workers are practically hostages-- and _not_ see how deeply these cruelties offended him? His moral code is stark and stringent, as pitiless as those deserts to which his people long ago fled in search of freedom. In a galaxy whose primary polytheistic religion was government-sponsored in all but name, physical toil and hardship were the price for a space in which to practice their beliefs and simply _exist_. On Iapetus, the homeworld 'granted' as refuge by virtue of the fact there was nothing on it to exploit, they understand the predation inherent in life. Inescapable, the grasping competition for resources, but also a cycle in and of itself. Even the apex predator must die, bones fought over and picked clean. Those remaining bits too small or too tough for Iapetus' carrion eaters go to nourish desert succulents with existences so tenuous their roots are shallow and actually mobile. Yet it is also an ethos intensely aware of interconnection, in a way that often escapes even the most 'socially conscious' political activists. Eat or be eaten, yes; kill or be killed. But, as one old Earth hero of Erik's people said, 'out of the eater, something to eat.' After centuries during which the ruling planet _bragged_ about its complete failure to produce any goods or services, Lehnsherr's cries for blood and justice stirred many hearts-- and whole colonies-- to insurrection.

The rest of Shamason's riddle is often forgotten, even by those knowledgable enough to be aware of the it; 'out of the strong, something sweet'. With undisguised tenderness, Charles' strokes his omega's jaw. What need has he to hide his adoration in this moment, with not even the presence of a treacherous mirror to betray him? His reverence and his exasperation are complete. The man who played with refugee children in such earnest yet awkward absorption, who made soldiers on the drill field straighten with the faintest word of praise, his _friend_ … is also the same person who so fully shattered vows they'd sworn, turning aside all attempts to make peace. Only total war, total destruction of the prior regime, Lehnsherr's pirate space casts had claimed, would free them from the centuries-old shackles of exploitation. 

_'I thought,'_ read the only personal message Erik had ever sent during the years in which the war became three-sided, _'that we were brothers, you and I. That we wanted the same thing. You are _dead_ to me.'_

 

Though he's been shifting away from his lover slowly, intent on exiting the bed, Charles cannot quite bring himself to untangle their fingers. Some odd sense of the sibylline persists, not dispersed by the fires of wakefulness. It is hardly surprising that his omega should represent a safe anchor to reality. He is merely fortunate to have the forced closeness of heat for succor. Sometimes it seems his life-- this purgatory which is also paradise-- cannot possibly have reached this point. Changes are being made, albeit slowly, that better the chances and circumstances of millions, to say nothing of fostering opportunities and exchange between planets which should have existed all along. Yet his personal life hangs now in a desolate limbo which sometimes threatens to eclipse any sense of accomplishment. Foolish, _selfish_ , emotional reaction-- a sign, Erik would say, that he has feet of clay after all. Don't they all? Wits and cynics across all the worlds never hesitate to remind the galaxy that she only became amenable to peace once war ceased to profit. The toll of constant trade disruption, firefights, and loss of human life, ought to have been enough to motivate solutions based on self-interest alone. When these came at last to tax the upper echelons, they were _most_ discommoded. The reversal of fortune provided leverage too desperately needed for the mainstream rebellion to ignore. Charles had leapt at the chance, and in his preferred method: without looking first.  
Coming up with a practical solution meant giving up the luxury-- _Erik's_ luxury-- of sticking inflexibly to ones principles. 

 

Hardly the sole author of the decision, Xavier is never the less an easy target for criticism; chastised, in fact, for luck. He is not without his dead, but a majority of his friends and chosen family live when almost all of them should have been served up on an Imperium platter. Publicly executed by laser, or thrown to designed beasts-- violence _du jor_. The combined price on the heads of himself, Erik, Raven, and Hank alone could have bought several planets. Though priceless indeed, peace is not enough to quiet the the fallen whose ghosts come to question the living's dedication to the principles for which _they_ died. Charles is not the heir and patriarch of which his mother once dreamed-- too much donation of remaining (or reinstated) property and too few children for that-- but his life is far from the long march of privation many veterans now face. He has a comfortable home, a position in which his service _matters_, and a _veritas_ mate. At times this good fortune is a lodestone, a shaming brand on the forehead of a man whose dreams still revisit burning hulls, wailing static, and the silent decompression of ships in the black of space.  
But it's better than the alternative.

 

_('That charmed star you live under,' says all-to-accurate version of Lehnsherr's voice that has set up shop in Charles' head. 'Have you forgotten the _eight days_ it took to ratify what should have been a very simple and minor proposal? Is this the change our friends-- our _people_ died for? Or should I just shut my mouth, spread my legs, and be grateful to bask in the umbra of your mazel tov?')_

 

The internal mimicry is so clever that Xavier actually checks himself, wondering if Erik is awake, though a glance downward reassures him this is not so. Who needs an eavesdropping bondmate when a guilty conscience does the job just fine? He should know better than to trust his own senses. As his omega is always at pains to persuade him, it can be easily argued that nothing during heat is 'real'. 

 

Any contemplation of veracity quickly becomes immaterial in the face of Erik's sleepy but rising distress. Charles has no intention of withholding the closeness his mate needs any longer than necessary, leaning over and hunting in the twist of discarded blankets for the discarded robe. Draping the scent-logged satin over his omega's back, he presses a few kisses to the strong jaw to punctuate the sentiment, "I'll be right back, love."

That last bit is a slip but, other than that, the diplomat's mission to the en suite bathroom and quick pitstop at the kitchen alcove is a success. One completed in record time, making him doubly grateful he does not have to navigate around the wreckage of the old tray while balancing the contents of the new. The dust-eaters-- shiny, efficient little things that look rather like ancient computer mice-- do much more than their name implies. Growing up, Charles hated the cumbersome old models that infested their sea-side villa. The vacuous red sensor 'eyes' were entirely too macabre to inflict on a child, and likely the reason Marko ordered them in the first place. The stout, self-styled businessman certainly enjoyed threatening his stepson with tales of malfunctioning units that punished nasty, nosey little alphas in any number of gruesome ways. This current batch on Graymalkin has been so heavily modified and streamlined by Erik that they seem almost a different species entirely. Lehnsherr, despite his tendency to exploit them for mischief, is rather a marvelous programmer and engineer. 

Aside from fresh vitamin cakes and drinks, Xavier has also obtained a soft wet flannel and AfterCare Kit from the bathroom. The former he employs almost at once, pausing only to examine the blood around Erik's mouth in the improved lighting. Still soft enough not to wake the older man, the lamps cast a forgiving glow that seems to strip away the years. Always handsome, Charles' mate now also appears quite the youth-- a pilfering rapscallion asleep and still smeared with evidence of dark red candy or icing. The kisses they'd traded had been slick with blood, but careful daubs of the cloth reveal no other facial wounds save the one Lehnsherr gave himself. That lower lip is already swelling, though that may owe to the way they were supping at one another's mouths. 

Now that the alpha is once more sitting on the bed, Erik's out-flung hand gropes in the manner of a reef-beast for its prey. Nearest available grip found (Charles' hip), he hooks an arm around it and pulls the other man close with a somnambulist's insistence. 

" _Ahuvi_ ," he mutters, likely annoyed by approaching wakefulness. 

"Shhh," the scholar soothes, kissing each scratch once it passes reexamination. None of the abrasions on Erik's back are deep enough to warrant ointment, though he caresses them with the warm flannel all the same. He's treading on thin ice, but guilt-- to say nothing of deprivation-- makes him reckless. Still clinging to slumber, Lehnsherr squirms and practically purrs while Charles checks to make sure he wasn't turn or otherwise harmed during what was likely a very savage coupling. Their ice must have been frenetic given the pervasive lethargy in his own body and thoughts. He cannot remember ever having been quite so exhausted this _early_ in heat before. Awake, solicitude would only stir Erik's ire, rendering the alpha all the more determined to cherish him, lavishing attention and indulgence during the involuntary truce. This is parenthetical time; if the omega may disavow all action therein, Xavier feels the same courtesy should be extended to him. Some of this is perhaps perverse defiance (he has no illusions of pristine motives, never mind Raven's aspersions), but the majority of his desire lies in the knowledge that his lover's portion of gentleness in life has been small indeed. 

Erik, who is so singular and priceless, views neglect as an actual reward-- any other attention must be negative or come with strings attached. From the beginning of their acquaintance, Charles has watched his friend evaluate even the more prosaic of situations by a single rule: better to suffer alone and fly under the radar than expose weakness to others, whose motives are always suspect. It's an attitude that never fails to inspire a piecing pain beneath Charles' ribs, as if-- like the legends of sympathetic magic-- he and his bondmate were once cleaved apart from the same breathing bed of coral. There are alphas the galaxy over who venerate their omegas for reasons less founded than Charles' own profound admiration, while he is reduced to covertly caressing the man who has stepped in front of blaster-bolts for him. Who must be seduced by the delirium of pheromones before he's willing to even nestle close.

 

This latest of Erik's stunt-- trying to essentially drug the alpha into mauling him-- is a problem. Looking back, a part of Charles is surprised that Lehnsherr hasn't played this card before. Then again, the old omega's tales about blood-sharing strengthening the bond, combined with the attitude of any desert dweller towards exchanging intimate fluid, would have been a strong deterrent. To reach so deeply into an unwanted arsenal speaks to Xavier of desperation, though the catalyst is unclear. Does the omega really need a specific impetus at this point? Three years of imprisonment in a fine astroid-station 'house' is confinement still and must be viewed in concert with the arduous year-long trial, during which Erik's accommodations were far less pleasant. Any attempt to mitigate these hardships has caused contention with both Erik and those members of congress who thought (and still do) Charles is far too lenient with the man meant to serve as a warning to 'passing' or 'pathological' omegas. 'A little psychological pressure garners a much more compliant mate,' some of his more odious colleagues have advised. 'And what's the voodoo bond _for_ , anyway, if not that?' None of them have an ounce of understanding, their marriages being bonds solely of political convenience, but the scholar still shudders in real sympathy for their unfortunate mates. A _veritas_ bond does not guarantee a happy relationship-- he and Erik should be a case study!-- but abuse is far less likely if you're forced to experience the suffering you dispense. Charles can no more understand those rare cases of _veritas_ maltreatment than he can imagine plunging a knife into his own chest.

 

_("It helps," Lehnsherr said once, when a night of drinking moonshine devolved into young soldiers wistfully discussing future mates, "if you believe G-d is on your side." Wistful or not, Charles must admit there had also been some lewdness to the conversation. Most alphas in the rebellions were unmated and made no secret of their eagerness to change that fact when (and ah, the blinders of youth which see only 'when' and not 'if') the war was won. Angel wanted an omega who liked to be tied up, Janos found the idea of service-topping intriguing, and Alex expressed an interest in light pain-play. Which led to Hank, thoughtful beta, wondering aloud about kink negotiation and abuse of power._

_"Why would you press your omega into something they don't like?" Jean had asked. "Especially if you're _veritas_? You betas don't get it-- you have to fish around for the right partners, and you never know if you've got it right."_

_"Define 'right'?" Erik challenged before Hank could answer. "At least they're never in a relationship where one party is automatically beholden to the other." McCoy had smiled at him, grateful for what the medic perceived as another outsider's support. Jean's comment, while not intentionally cruel, still betrayed the general pecking order of society, and Charles had seen by firelight the furious blush of shame which swept over her features. Subtle, internalized notions of 'the proper order' were often the most difficult to train oneself away from, as the scholar himself well knew._

_"Not _beholden_--" Angel protested faintly._

_"Their gods, and even the Nameless G-d, have supposedly decreed it should be so," Lehnsherr smiled mirthlessly, giving fair share of censure to the One. He'd told Charles early on that he disavowed that 'being' on the basis of either non-existence or profound disinterest in His own creations-- sometimes both, if the assassin's mood was poor enough. The small group had become rapt now, even the chill swamp around them seemed subdued in anticipation of Erik's next words. Hank and Alex were particularly engaged, and Charles listened to sentiments he'd heard before with persistent appreciation for his friend's thoughtfulness and diction. How farcical, he'd thought at the time, must society's obsession with primary gender seem to a Null? Even betas had their faint disdain for the heat-ridden sexes. They kept their own gods, paired among themselves, and their complaints were 'tolerated' as long as alphas felt their practical supremacy secure._

_"'Alphas are the peak of evolution,'" Erik quoted, the dry, empty tone of his voice more damning than any mocking sneer. "The 'Divine' seems disposed to speak to so many, and that little voice always seems to tell people exactly what they want to hear.")_

 

No-- Erik cannot be broken, nor would Charles want him so. It would be a travesty worse than the omega's potential final mistreatment at the hands of some showman executioner. Long ago, Xavier decided in admiration that even Lady Death could not prevail upon Lehnsherr fully. Abscond with him, yes, but hold him? He would slip through her fingers like quicksilver, drops of which he keeps under glass in his quarters like some kind of exotic pet.

But even the finest prison works attrition against the psyche, and Charles knows himself to be a jailor no matter how unwilling the role. His wonder at Erik's tenacity stems in part from his own comparatively paltry experience with confinement. He himself once earned three months in an Imperium prison workhouse for his treatise, 'Biochemical and Genetic Evidence For Post Atomic Polymorphic Divergence'-- a sentence which might have been commuted to public retraction and a fine had he not already lost his title. Being a little less vocal in his outrage might have helped as well, but he had been young and thus too trusting in the appearance of legality too much. The window dressing of so-called 'due process'. The backbreaking labor, theft of personhood, and violent pecking order bred by recidivism, shocked and quickly demoralized him. It is not for nothing he calls Raven his sister, for without her grace and protection he surely would have perished. 

 

_("You've fallen through the mirror," she'd told him, having drug him bodily from the beating he was receiving in the mess line. His attackers she dispatched with a whistle and a slicing motion of her hand. Later he would learn from whence her clout stemmed but, at the moment, the image of the golden-haired alpha (missing only a bow to be the perfect icon of a vengeful Artemis) standing over him was enough to stun the loquacious academic into silence. She was younger than he, but with harsh hazel eyes and a voice to suit her eventual destiny of commanding troops. "Forget what you've learned," she said, tossing out the words in the same manner she did the cold slab of meat which landed in his lap. Chuckling at his puzzled look, she was never the less gentle as she applied the cool (if slimy) relief to the knot already forming on his skull. "Forget what you've been told of places like these and people like me. This is the shadow-land that keeps the bright, pretty world turning. As of right now, you start at square one.")_

 

The truth, every word of it. Raven had been patient with him-- much more than he deserved, looking back-- as he worked to find his feet in a closed society dependent on hierarchies within hierarchies, and in which every single one of his assumptions only served to work against him. Like the 'walking beak-fish' of his home world, his every step was uncertain and ungainly, making him perfect prey unless he was willing to learn-- and fight-- as he went. The first fifteen years of his life had been bountiful, much more than many of his future friends and comrades could have expected in their entire spans of living under the old order. While he'd understood that intellectually (or thought he had) from a rather early age, helping himself to his father's library of uncensored books, he'd made the easy mistake of all innocents in attributing inherent morality in institutions themselves. Surely a _true_ scientist was willing to look at matter without prejudice; all dedicated judges incorruptible; all academics dedicated to the principles upon which they lectured? His opinions-- rather condescending at times, having been formed in the relative isolation of Tethys' rigid caste system-- caused such mortification that he was prohibited from any interaction with children of his 'station' and (more happily) permanently excused from being 'shown off' at dinner parties. If he could not be a charming society alpha, his mother insisted, Charles could at least give her the pleasure of bragging over a family savant. It is to this he owes the rigorous mnemonic, cryptographic, and mentalist training.

Marko's successful suit for disinheritance was a crushing blow but, as with breaking bones, it is better that the fall occurred while Charles was still flexible enough in thought and personality to recover. Turned out on his arse, he'd mistakenly thought the next ten years as scholarship student, desperate scrivener, and intermittent pauper, gave him some understanding of the true inequities dependent on the mere accident of birth. For good or ill, the Academic Guild had invested too much privileged training and esoteric technique in the former aristocrat to simply let him starve free range, disclosing gods only knew what secrets. Far better that he half-starve under their tender auspices, object of disdain and warning, assigned those tasks to menial even for the hired help and shunned as though his financial misfortunes were some sort of crippling disease. His 'political pathologies' helped not in the slightest and, wed to his high-flung principles like the most stubborn of water mules, it had seemed safe (if somewhat self-pitying) to assume he had no more good fortune to spare. Then the University Judge-- one of those logisticians supposedly unclouded by political or person bias-- handed down the redaction, and Charles Xavier discovered he didn't understand the true injustices of Imperium society in the slightest.  
Though it was taught him in short order-- quite viscerally. 

 

It is perhaps ironic that Charles is the one with the prison record, and not his infamous mate. This owes partly to Lehnsherr's sheer skill at evasion, the rest finding its roots in the simple knowledge of the stakes he risked if caught. Shut away, Erik's sex would have been revealed in relatively short order, just as it was when the blockers ran out on Orcus. Xavier's shudder is one of deep, undramatized revulsion as he turns away thoughts of what his beloved might have been suggested to in the merciless stone jungles of the jailhouse. Instead, the alpha bows his body over where Erik lies in his lap, kissing and stroking that dear head as if to soothe the mind within. If it also eases the phantom pressure he himself feels, all the better.

 

_(Seeking pressure, friction, he finds only empty air. He is burning-- burning in the rut his mate inspires and this precious, cool world of shadow-- while Erik laves the sweat from his skin with wide, feline lavings of the tongue. This attention does not extend to the alpha's member, the knot of which is engorged in a way that ought to be impossible outside the comforting sheath of his omega. A moan, naught but a wordless plea, answers itself over and over again in Charles' ears. His own voice, though he can barely recognize it as such. A clay vessel is held to his lips; thin juice runs down his throat with faint, unanticipated crispness, the overflow dripping down his chin.  
"Do you see now?" Erik asks as he kisses up the leftovers, "_Now_ do you understand?")_

 

Presently, Lehnsherr issues another sleepy grunt. Is he distressed by the unpleasant turn of Charles' thoughts, or irked by his mate's continued efforts to throw off these odd impressions? Either might well be so, for at the back of the alpha's mind there is a brief but perceptible subterranean stir. Wordless, half-formed thoughts amidst the sleepy gossamer already obscuring Xavier's cognition: 'hush/mine/closer', and the vague notion of a grasping hand. 

_(… lead you in the darkness, close the shackles most tenderly…)_

"Is that your dream, then?" Charles wonders aloud, "Some revenge fantasy I stumbled upon while we were all tangled up?" The thought is surreal; profound depression wrapped in _deja vu_ over something one has never actually experienced. He feels more and more certain the bond was actually open at some point during their mad, animal coupling. At present, its the only explicable culprit for his current state: cognition at once muzzy and invigorated as one trudging relentlessly through stinging winter wind. It's rather reminiscent of a drunk's waking (though thankfully without the hangover), memory reduced to a riot of conflicting sensations and the nagging feeling for some embarrassing omission. 

 

_("Shhh," Erik murmurs again, brushing a few dry kisses against Charles' forehead. They are more the benedictions of a closed and fleeting mouth, surreptitious as when he nursed Xavier through the worst of Nithamic fever. _That_ was real, however-- perhaps one of the few indications of the assassin's more-than-brotherly affections during their lengthy tenure as brothers in arms. This-- the pervasive hallucinatory uncertainty which eases only in the tight clasp of Erik's arms-- is not real at all, and easily betrays itself as such. The dubiousness of the situation lies not in the diplomat's over-exertion or the pleasure-soaking humming of his nerves, but in the almost vindictive tenderness of of his lover. Only Lehnsherr could form a weapon of intimacy like this, solicitously massaging Charles' now-freed wrists, hovering over the alpha's prone form with all the absorption of a desert cat for its meal. Their surroundings attest to the mirage as well. High, uneven arches of indigo onyx form a strange little natural vestibule, sparkling with faint shy flecks of gold. This spartan luxury is lit solely by furious white lances of light rendered bearable only by the distance and diffusion the source suffers to reach these deep catacombs. Erik arranges Charles in a little nest-like depression of rock lined with thick velveteen hides, curling contented hunter's limbs around the smaller form. "Poor thing," the cloying pity, while laced with satisfaction, is potent with something far worse-- something not at all dissimilar to love. "Just rest, now.")_

 

Xavier fists his hands in the fine sheets-- not hides, but _sheets_-- suddenly aware of the terrible juxtaposition between his genuine, logical train of thought and these moments of interference. It is as if some other signal has been brought to bear on his mind, and not a being alive has been able to importune Charles' Will with their own for decades. It is not a matter of psychic embattlement for which Academic Guild prepares and trains, but rather resistance to and reversal of actions and nonverbal cues launched by those with more domineering personalities. Now what the diplomat faces _is_ entirely mental, his opponent already beneath his armor and as close as his own skin. There is something more afoot here than heightened heat-delirium or the expected affects of blood-sharing, and no amount of self-reproach can banish the suspicion. What initially strikes Charles as paranoid must be reevaluated in light of… **Erik**. Daughtless, clever, inflexible Erik, who can take extreme risks for sometimes unfathomable rewards. Whose seeming unpredictable whim, like the strike of a snake sunning itself, stems always from careful strategy. 

"What on all the worlds were you thinking?" Charles asks in a hoarse whisper. That, at least, is preferable to anything shrill. Rigorous training dictates he rarely betray panic outwardly, but he can feel the harsh pitch rising within. Erik cants his hips sleepily, sounding quite put out at his emptiness, and at last raises his head. A brief, unvarnished smile flickers over his countenance, so that Charles must look away.

'Be careful,' the scholar's prudence chants. 'If he's still under, if you hurt him or wrongly accuse him now…' But he can already see his mate's gaze clearing, though whether the oscitant eroticism is banished by detection of Charles' suspicion or mere wakefulness is impossible to tell. 

There follows, however, another grin-- one which cannot be misinterpreted. The glint of the leviathan's fangs as it rises to toss the oceans, and the plans of mere mortals, in upon themselves. 

 

"Erik," Charles asks carefully, affecting a serenity he most assuredly does not feel. "Erik, _what have you done_?"

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> [+] _dens rosa fatalis_ \- bastardized Latin: 'fatal tooth rose'.  
> [+] 'Alpha Get Angry' based on the distressing song 'Johnny Get Angry' by Joanie Sommers (1962). No offense if you like the song but, if you haven't listened to it, do so with caution-- it isn't exactly a feminist anthem. *makes a face*  
> [+] _Ani zkuka lekha_ \- Hebrew. "I need you."  
> [+] _Kapara alecha_ \- Hebrew. Used for 'sweetie/darling', literally 'my atonement'.  
> [+] _Yalla_ \- Arabic loan-word to Hebrew: 'Hurry up!', 'Come on!', etc.  
> [+] _Ahuvi_ \- Hebrew; 'my love'. (Female form is 'ahuvati'.)
> 
>  Any and all linguistic errors are solely the fault of the author.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for taking the time to read my story! If I could bother you a bit more to leave kudos or even comment, I would be very appreciative. I'd love to know what you think! I also do this embarrassing little dance, which I promise to keep to myself. ;-)


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